New Person, Same Old Mistakes
by MizJoely
Summary: A Victorian take on the aftermath of the dramatic Mary Reveal from HLV. Not specifically set in the TAB universe, but certainly could be. Warstan.


Written for rooneykmara on tumblr, from this prompt: _How about something Warstan with this title: "New Person, Same Old Mistakes" (I stole this off a song from my Warstan playlist, from Tame Impala)_

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"I see that temper of yours has got you into trouble again, Watson."

John Watson scowled and hunched his shoulders against his temporary flatmate's words, mildly though they'd been uttered. An observation rather than a condemnation, although he felt the sting of them keenly. "Why must she be so difficult, Sherlock? Why can't she be more like…"

"Like the woman you thought you'd married?" Holmes cut in. "Witty, charming, friendly, helpful? Oh wait, her recent actions have rendered those other truths null and void, I forgot. Never mind that all she's really done is reveal deeper truths, including a rather impressive skill set that you and I decidedly lack."

Watson turned to face him with a scowl. "Since you were the near-victim of her 'hidden skill set'," he replied with deep sarcasm, "I fail to see why you continue to support her actions that night. Good lord, man, she shot you in cold blood!" His blood boiled at the memory. "And then she attempted to blackmail you into keeping her actions secret from me, her own husband!"

"Because she knew very well how you would react," Holmes replied coolly. "As your temporary return to Baker Street and refusal to so much as speak to her for the past month have proven. She knew you would condemn her, refuse to hear her side of the story…make the same mistakes with her that you made with me, after my return from the dead."

"You both lied to me," he said lowly. "Neither of you trusted me to keep your secrets."

"For my part, it was unforgivable, yes," Holmes said frankly. "And yet you still chose to forgive me. For Mary's part, it was not truly her secret to share. Anyone who acts as an agent for the British government in such a capacity is forbidden by both the Official Secrets Act and my brother Mycroft - who can be far more intimidating than a mere piece of paper, as you well know - from revealing the truth of their status to anyone. _Anyone_ ," he repeated with heavy emphasis when Watson opened his mouth to object. "Even their husband. Who happens to be involved in various unsavory misadventures with his even more unsavory best friend. And who, not incidentally, is known to write up their adventures for the popular press. Why she thought it a poor idea to share her status with you I shall never understand."

The last was said quite mockingly, but Watson couldn't find it in himself to be angry. For once, the endless well of fury that seemed to lurk deep in his heart, ready to explode at the slightest provocation, had run dry. He sat back heavily in his chair, dropping his head to his hand. He heard Holmes move to sit opposite him, and there was silence for a long time before either spoke again.

"It's different when it's the person to whom you've pledged your life, your love, and your future," Watson said quietly. "I do not expect you to understand that, Holmes, as an unattached bachelor, but it is a very different thing when your wife lies to you. How can I trust a single thing she's ever said to me, if she can lie about such an important aspect of her life? How can I believe her when she tells me she loves me?" he added in a near whisper, chest aching with emotions too tumultuous to identify.

"You can trust her implicitly, Watson, in matters of the heart, because you are not an assignment. She did not marry you under orders from Mycroft, or in order to further her cover," Holmes replied, just as softly. "You have my word on that…and more importantly, you have _hers_."

Watson said nothing, merely let loose a sigh. After a moment he heard Holmes leave his seat, cross the sitting room, and then exit the flat, the door shutting behind him with a familiar creak and click.

He remained unmoving for many hours, until finally the evening shadows extinguished all but the flickering lights from the fireplace to his left. He rose creakily to his feet, lit the gas in the wall sconces against Holmes' return, and had just started to shrug into his overcoat when the door opened. He turned to see who it was, expecting either Holmes or Mrs. Hudson, and was somehow unsurprised to see Mary standing there.

"Sherlock sent me a note," she explained, showing him the small white envelope. "He asked me to come…"

All the anger and hurt he'd been holding so tightly to seemed to melt at the sight of her troubled mien. He ignored the skeptical voice at the very furthest reaches of his mind that whispered _she might be acting_ and _how can you trust her_ in favor of crossing the room until he stood directly in front of her. "You lied to me," he said.

She nodded her head once in acknowledgement of his words. "I did. But I never meant…"

He raised a hand, stopping her words, and she stood quietly, hands folded in front of her, looking very much like a prisoner awaiting judgement - and accepting of whatever fate might be in store for them.

"I've thought long and hard about what I want to say to you," he finally said. "These are prepared words, Mary. I've chosen these words with care."

She nodded.

He drew a deep breath before speaking again, finally voicing the words he'd crafted after the course of the afternoon. "The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future…are my privilege. That's all I have to say; that's all I need to know. You need tell me nothing more of your work for Mycroft Holmes or Her Majesty's government; I trust that you will share with me anything that I need to know, anything that will impact our future as husband and wife."

Mary's face seemed to crumple. "You don't even know what else I've done in the name of Queen and Country…"

He reached out and took her hands in his - not tenderly, he was not quite ready for tenderness, but firmly. "All this does not mean I'm not still quite cross with you, Mary."

She nodded and managed a smile through her tears. "Yes, I know."

As he pulled her into his embrace, careful not to jostle her or hold her too tightly lest he do some harm to the precious cargo she carried within her womb, he added, "I am very cross, and it will come out now and again."

"I know, I know," Mary assured him as she wrapped her arms around him and settled her head on his shoulder.

"You can inventory the supplies in my clinic from now on," he said after a moment, a tentative attempt at lightening the moment.

She drew her head back to look at him. "I do that now, husband."

His brow furrowed. "I do it much of the time," he protested.

She gave a small, watery laugh. "You really don't."

Watson harrumphed. "I get to choose the baby's name."

Her laughter was much less choked this time as she shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not."

He smiled and pulled her close again. "Very well," he conceded.


End file.
